


wearing my sky-blue lacoste

by Theboys



Series: what a time to be alive [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Clothing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: They take the obvious choice, first-round draft pick, number one selection, 22-year-old Jared Padalecki, played all four years of ball at UNC-Chapel Hill and is basically God’s gift to the state of Chicago.Jensen's boyfriend plays pro-ball and it's a really good thing sportswear is made out of easy-to-clean fabric.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somersault_j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somersault_j/gifts), [lightinthehall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightinthehall/gifts), [emerald_orbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emerald_orbs/gifts).



> i wrote this in three hours because of a comment made about a certain scene in BHAR.
> 
> title purposefully stolen from Knee Socks by Arctic Monkeys.

Jensen’s boyfriend is a SF and sometimes point-guard for Golden State. He started out homegrown, Texas born and bred, all four years  of college at his mother’s insistence before declaring himself eligible for the NBA draft.

He’s had what Jensen privately, and the public, well, publically, considers the most illustrious lucky streak in a pro-baller’s career.

He came to prominence, (back when Jensen was fluttering on the skirts of _real_ journalism, still slaving away over puff pieces for Reader’s Digest) with the second upset of the NBA Draft Lottery in ‘09. The Bulls snagged first-pick Rose the year prior, with a less than 2% chance at the crown.

Jensen, and his entire office, had collectively lost their shit. The Chicago Tribune had ran the article for weeks in some fashion or another, and Jensen had called home in glee.

His mother was less than impressed, it was especially hot in Dallas that year and she was wondering when, exactly, Jensen would be available to come back and visit.

His older brother Josh was, thankfully, more appropriately excited and Jensen politely listened to him rail about how the last good luck-of-the-draw for the Spurs had been in ‘97, when God Almighty himself, Tim Duncan, had first blessed the court.

Jensen’s a born and bred Spurs fan, but he’s generally got to pledge allegiance to whatever team his boyfriend’s with.

Jensen didn’t think that the basketball world could take much more, (or the state of his finances, he hadn’t written anything worth calling home about) when the lottery for 2009 commenced.

Chicago was still riding a winner’s high at the time, and Jensen had a gross little apartment downtown that he shared with his childhood best friend and said best friend’s newest, ratty-eyed boyfriend.

All-in-all, his life could be worse. He’s a beat Reporter right now and they’ve got him doing honest-to-God pieces about self-care and stranded kittens.

He’s on page 12A, left side, and he knows he’s gonna move up in the ranks one day, but he’s never been an especially patient person.

He graduated with honors but he’s still just turned twenty, skipped a grade and young for his year, and he’s sitting around their 55’’ flat screen when the news breaks.

It’s the nicest thing they own and Jensen’s just about picked his cuticles to shreds. Chris is leaning back in his seat, legs sprawled wide open and his cum-trash-can of a boyfriend is rattling around in the kitchen somewhere.

Jensen’s legs are tucked underneath him and he’s got on his #25 jersey and a pin could drop between he and Chris and rat-boyfriend would be able to hear it.

When they announce that Chicago’s upset the system not once, but _two_ years running, Jensen flings himself across Chris’ lap in disbelief.

Chris spills his Fat Tire all over the back of Jensen’s hairline and they’re both whooping and hollering.

They take the obvious choice, first round draft pick, number one selection, 22-year-old Jared Padalecki, played all four years of ball at UNC-Chapel Hill and is basically God’s gift to the state of Chicago.

They’re repeating his name and the kid comes out on stage, lanky but built to _shit,_ and Jensen squints and the screen with a low whistle.

“Whaddya think he plays,” Chris asks lazily, mostly drunk and still vibrating on the high of fucking _up_ the basketball community.

Fuckcan wanders out of the kitchen and settles in between Chris’ legs, soft dick threatening to make an untimely exit from the hole of his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck me all the way up,” Fuckcan says, leans forward and almost obscures Jensen’s vision to see the screen better.

“Stretch actually did it! That motherfucker done did it!” Fuckcan is screeching and now he’s up, bounding across their limited space with long legs.

Jensen’s annoyed and Chris just looks besotted, but that doesn’t really slow the boyfriend’s roll.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jensen demands, presses his ear to the screen even though Mr. Golden Sun isn’t saying anything, all that hair tied loosely up in a bun on his head.

He’s got a black diamond earring in one ear and he looks far less nervous than Jensen would in that same situation.

The reporters are already swarming him and he’s trying to hug his mother and balance his new Bulls hat on that mop of hair and Fuckcan is _still screaming._

He’s yelling into his phone now and Jensen’s about to dive tackle him since Chris can’t look past the boyfriend’s ass, but he sounds genuinely excited, and, against his better judgement, Jensen pauses to listen.

“You son of a bitch, Jay. You told me you declared but you son of a fucking _bitch!_ Jeff’s gonna be piss-drunk in his hotel room right about now, y’hear me! Call me back when you’re off the damn TV! M’looking right now! Drinks on you, brother! Drinks on you!”

Fuckcan hangs up, throws both fists into the air and catches sight of Jensen’s fly-on-the-wall stare.

His lips curves into a Cheshire-cat grin and Jensen blinks repeatedly, mouth still popped open.

“You. You--were--you,” Jensen tries, and Chad squats down in front of him, disparaging to the last.

“C’mon, Bean,” Fuckcan says with faux-kindness, “spit it out. You don’t usually have this much of a problem using your mouth.”

Jensen can’t even find the irrational flare of anger Fuckcan usually inspires, because of the potential news.

“Do you know him? First round pick,” Jensen sputters, angles his head to the TV because now the Bulls have two of the best players in the nation, and Jensen’s about to pass out.

“Do I know him?” Fuckcan says slyly, and Jensen finds that he’s actually shaking.

“Gotta be more specific,” he asks, and even Chris laughs from his seat on the couch. “He’s got you there, Bean,” Chris says, and Jensen grabs Fuckcan by the t-shirt and drags him as close as he can withstand.

“Chad. Are you telling me,” he drawls accidentally, “that you know the first round draft pick?”

Chad leans back on his haunches and smiles again, all feral promise and conceit.

“What I’m telling you,” Chad enunciates, “is that Jared Tristan Padalecki’s been my best friend since we were in _diapers.”_

He thinks he’s warranted a momentary lapse in judgment when he kisses Chad directly on the mouth.

-

That was three years ago, and now they’ve relocated to Oakland and, unfortunately, Chad’s still a regular part of their life.

They tout Jared on ESPN, discuss his graceful transition from PG to starting forward.

Jensen’s watched his latest interview three times, and even though he’s not allowed to report on his boyfriend anymore, “conflict of interest,” he’s still a beacon of light in the sports industry.

He does most of his articles long-distance, necessity if he wants to write for anyone good and still be around Jared.

They’re both traveling, more often than not, but because of the nature of his work, they end up in most of the same places.

Jensen’s always got box-seats and the camera-crews eat it up, pre-game ritual of Jared saluting Jensen’s seat before any game.

Jared’s a relatively reserved person, and Jensen was shocked to learn it, after watching so many boisterous interviews before Chad finally relented and introduced them.

He’s calm but incredibly physically imposing, about 6’5 when all is said and done. He’s extremely level headed but he’s also got a jealous streak about fifty miles wide, and he can turn destructive when he’s tense about something.

None of these are serious enough to be actual deal-breakers, but Jensen knows exactly how to handle his boyfriend.

ESPN is still speculating on the circumstances of Jared’s unforeseen trade, and he knows Jared’s getting fed up with convincing everyone that the decision was amicable.

He’s downstairs in their too-big house, the night before the team is flying out for the season opener, and Jensen knows he’s either running, punching the bag or getting ready to destroy some vase that Jensen’s not partial on cleaning up again.

Rose and Jared were just too good at the same position. It’s the exact reason Jared’s trainers starting focusing on what else he could do when it was obvious that  he wasn’t quite average height for a forward.

He and Rose got along spectacularly well, and still do. Jared’s not out to pit teammate against teammate, and the desire for drama pisses him off almost as well as Jensen can.

He can either go down there and let Jared rail at him for a few hours, or he can do The Thing.

The Thing still makes him blush, even after all these years. Jensen’s pretty shy, has had around four good friends his whole life, but he’s also stubborn and a quiet facade combined with tenacious resolve has often served him well in his chosen line of work.

It also doesn’t exactly translate to the bedroom. It took him long enough to be okay with his sexuality and he sometimes he still fumbles with it, uncertain to the last.

What he is sure of, though, is that Jared gets off on The Thing. Hard. It’s like, top three in Jay’s arsenal of weaknesses, and Jensen’s not above exploiting them.

Jared’s got custom-made jerseys out the ass, and Jensen knows he likes the long-sleeved shirts best.

They’re far too big on Jensen; Jared’s bulked up even more since his first days in the NBA and the ends of the sleeves hang over his palms and obscure them entirely.

He feels stupid in it, like a kid playing dress-up, and he’s still too tongue-tied to ask Jared what, exactly, gets him off about this.

He pads over to the mirror in the bathroom, three sinks before him, like he’s got an army of people to clean.

It’s still faintly hot from his earlier shower and he reaches into the top left drawer for Jared’s favorite brand of lube.

It’s warming and it smells like cherries, or maybe some other fruit. Jensen averts his eyes from the glass and slicks himself up, reaches down to prod the pad of his index against an already loose hole.

Jared’s superstitious as hell, refuses to leave the city/hotel/ room without a good luck-fuck from Jensen before a game.

Jensen thinks he’s just horny at all times, but he plays along because he gets something out of it too.

He’s pliant but not sloppy; Jared’s been gone for three days and he just got back this morning, but he had to go straight over to train and Jensen’s twitchy with the want of his boyfriend’s dick.

He presses that finger right on up inside him and his wrist trembles with how warm-good it feels.

He gasps to himself, overly loud in the quiet of this room, and his face flames with color. He hates this part, feels too open and stretched when he preps himself, and he bends his neck so he doesn’t accidentally look up.

He wets himself again, forces his middle in next and scissors almost immediately, bearing down on the strain.

He’s hot now, sweating lightly and he can’t stop the small bump and grind he’s got on his own hand.

He presses in a third just for show, looks down at the pinkened tip of his cock from where it’s standing at attention, gently flushed with excitement.

He pries his fingers loose, reluctantly, and catches an unwelcome glimpse of his face as he turns away. He leaves their bedroom, jogs downstairs before he can lose his nerve.

His ass is wet and fluttering around nothing but promise and his color is too high. He curls his fingers in excess fabric and tries to breathe deeply around the strain in his chest.

Jared’s sweating, black Nike basketball shorts clinging to muscular thighs. He’s got gloves on and his hair is matted to his eyes.

He hasn’t transcended anger yet, but he _is_ especially quiet, which means an explosion isn’t that far off.

Jensen takes a deep breath. Made it in time.

“I know it’s not worth my time, Jen,” Jared huffs out, sweat glistening obscenely, “But Der and I talk every day. We’ve been to his house,” Jared continues, one-two-three swing that makes Jensen’s belly tighten.

“Jay,” he tries, treads carefully because Jared really is volatile like this.

“I just wanna--fucking Christ, I just wanna play the game,” he says, and his voice upticks on the word game and Jensen steps closer, just into Jared’s line of sight.

Jared’s gaze flicks up on instinct, then back to the bag and then he shudders to a stop entirely.

“Jensen,” Jared says, and it comes out like a question but it’s anything but. “You--you’re stressed,” Jensen explains lamely.

He wants to add, _we’ll talk about it afterwards, when you can use your words again,_ but right now his mouth dries up and Jared’s already several feet closer than he was a few seconds ago.

“Is this the one from the Finals last year?” Jared asks, focuses on the number 18, and then he’s hooking long arms around Jensen’s waist and dragging him forward.

It’s not quite a jersey, more like an NBA-certified expensive tee, but the fact of the matter stands. It’s got Jared’s number and his name on the back and this one is actually signed.

It’s one of Jared’s favorites on him and Jensen trembles in his grip.

“Y--you love this one,” he says slowly and Jared’s long fingers drag against the stitching that create the letter of his last name.

Fingernails scrape against bone and Jensen’s dick quivers and leaks, pressing against Jared’s naked abdomen from beneath fabric.

“C’mere, c’mere, baby,” Jared breathes, already almost mindless, and Jensen acquiesces, like always.

Jared keeps one broad palm on Jensen’s shoulders, over the name, and the second he uses to cup the swell of Jensen’s ass from where it’s just-barely peeking out from underneath the hem.

Jared wastes no time, greedy and one-track minded. His fingers dip into the crease and then circle his hole firmly.

They massage with intent and Jensen mewls, soft sound that Jared eats up.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” Jared says, “seeing you in this. Got my damn name all over you,” he continues, and then he spears Jensen on that last word.

Jensen squeals, breach sends him onto tiptoes and Jared hooks his chin over Jensen’s shoulder to watch his hand slap in and out, just like he likes to do.

“I wish I coulda seen you take your hand,” Jared slurs, and then he’s grabbing Jensen’s hips, slamming him over the edge of their new beige couch, some “summer-dream,” that their decorator had installed for them.

Jensen’s dick rubs against soft fabric and he thinks, a little hysterically, that they’ll never be able to return this if he comes all over it.

“Pull my shirt up,” Jared says, voice dipping lower. “Jus’ enough to I can see that ass,” he continues, all sex-drawl and warm promise.

“I wanna see my name,” Jared says, and he lines up, taps his dick threateningly against the furl of Jensen’s hole.

Jensen humps back, two degrees hotter for the shame of it, and Jared stills him with one strong hand to his hip.

“Gotta ask first,” Jared reminds him, and Jensen’s this close to burying his face in this brand new purchase.

“Gonna--” Jensen tries, and then begins anew. “Tell me again, please,” Jensen breathes, so turned on that he’s getting lightheaded. He’s got an inkling of what grinds Jared’s gears after these years, but it still makes him crazy to think it’s so simple.

“I own you,” Jared says, matter-of-fact. He starts the long side in, thick push of acres of dick, so hot and hard that Jensen immediately feels like he’s choking.

“Your face, your ass, your dick, this hole,” Jared says, rattles off his belongings with a nonchalance that’s staggering.

He doesn’t stop talking until he’s pressed all the way in, large balls swinging gently against Jensen’s own.

Jensen’s trembling, body bent double under Jared’s massive weight.

“You don’t share with anyone but me, right?” Jared’s asking, honestly asking, Jensen chokes down his air.

“You--do you want me to?” Jensen teases, relishes this feeling of having Jared so caught up that he’d panic about that.

Jared drags out immediately, keeps him split wide on the mushroom-crown and then impales him with all the force of a jump-shot.

“I’d kill him and then you,” Jared says, breath strained, and Jensen’s startled like he always is at the force of Jared’s declaration.

Jared’s pistoning in and out now, bouncing him up this expensive ass couch with every thrust and he curls a hand into the collar of his shirt and uses the leverage to drag Jensen’s neck backwards.

“Wanted you the minute I met you,” Jared babbles. “Wanted you in my house, and my--my bed,” he stutters, groaning when Jensen gets the strength to grind the meat of his ass backwards.

“Wanted to--to listen to you talk and keep you fucked--” Jared’s words peter off and Jensen’s whining so loudly it’s starting to hurt his own ears.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, you’re always so goddamn _tight,_ ” Jared grunts and Jensen’s mouth is slack and Jared keeps forcing little noises out of his throat.

“Please, please, please make me come, please,” he begs, mindless and hungry and it fucks Jared up whenever he asks for it.

“God _damn,_ sweetheart,” Jared breathes, and then he’s spilling deep, coats Jensen up, all wet and sticky even though they’re trying to be more careful and Jared really should’ve found a condom first.

Jensen can come at the full-feeling alone, the first hot spurt, and he always does, spills within a second of Jared finishing, rubs himself off, dirty-wanton against the fabric.

It’s not on Jared’s shirt, rucked up as it’s become, and Jared grinds against him slowly as Jensen comes, high and needy with release.

Jared’s hands are so tight on his hips that they bruise, and Jensen whimpers until Jared remembers and loosens his grip.

“Do you,” Jared ventures, quiet and plaintive like he only is once Jensen’s satiated that monster he carries around, “can we talk like this? I don’t wanna leave you yet,” he clarifies, and Jensen’s hole twitches and tightens involuntarily at the request.

Jared makes a pained but hungry moan at the feeling and Jensen arches up as Jared’s hand cards softly through his hair.

“Tell me what else is wrong,” Jensen asks, and if he’s still breathless, that’s no one’s fault but number eighteen's.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> because i've got no shame and i'm mildly partial to journalist!jensen and basketball-player!jared, this is totally about to become a 'verse. unless you guys hate it, in which case i'll still write it, but i'll cry more during the process.


End file.
